The Hole in My Heart
by RedHead537
Summary: Continuation of 'The Hole in My Mind' The bottle is empty. He's just downed the entire fucking bottle in one go. Gripping the counter, he bites his lip and hangs his head. Sure, everyone has a relapse every now and again, right? But that wasn't even the problem... The problem was, he knew it still wasn't enough. - Looks like being fucked-up runs in the family.
1. Chapter 1

_The edges of my sight are black as my feet drag forward. They feel impossibly heavy, weighed down by the surreal feeling spreading throughout my chest._

 _My eyes focus immediately on the piece of bright green cloth protruding from the mess of red metal._

 _A flash of auburn burns the back of my eyes._

* * *

The struggle for breath after a nightmare is carnal. Like an animal ready to run, the body surges with adrenaline as your body realizes that no, there is no immediate threat. All that can hurt you is in your mind, which is even more terrifying.

Long fingers grip the bedsheets, while the other clutches his chest. His shirt is completely soaked with sweat, and the action has his clothes sticking to him even more. He shivers violently. His eyes are wild, scanning the room for anything recognizable. Muscles tense uncomfortably as his body racks with spasms.

With each deep breath that passes, he feels his heartbeat slow. The world begins to fall back into place with numbers.

Constant, reliable, grounding numbers.

 _"Three….t-two… one."_

The result of the episode has left the blue-haired man wide awake, but completely exhausted. It's not a combination he's unfamiliar with. If only the fucking mind would take a second to listen to what the body wanted, he wouldn't be in this mess.

Shrugging the thought, long legs swing over the bedside as he glances at the clock.

There was only one solution he'd found so far to help quiet the mind.

 _1:46 a.m._

Yeah, there was time.

With quiet feet, he opens his door, quickly gazing down the dark hallway. He waits a moment, searching to detect any signs of life. The night stays silent as he glides to the kitchen. With the utmost care, he reaches above the refrigerator to open the highest shelf. He curses as the hinges make a squeal, disrupting the calm of the night. The thought of being discovered was disturbing, but he'd come too far now.

With shaky hands, he pushes aside the large bag of flour, reaching far into the back. His elbow disappears as he searches further, standing on his tip-toes. A grin spreads across his face as he feels the smooth glass brush his fingertips.

 _Bingo._

The bottle is a little dusty, but the pint of whiskey glimmers under the street lights through the window. The caramel colored liquid swirls in his hands. Setting the bottle on the table quietly, he stares at it a moment with hands on either side of the counter. His fingertips and toes began to tingle as he stares, and an old familiar hunger burns in his chest. The itching of his palm finally gets the better of him.

The cap was a bit crusted from time. It crunches as he twists it open. The smell hits him first, and he feels weak at the knees. Taking a moment to savor the smell, he sighs, placing the bottle over his lips, upturning the glass.

As the liquor scorches his throat down to his stomach, he feels a physical release he didn't know his body needed. It starts in his brain, then to his back, down his shoulders and arms, ending in the legs and to the toes.

Taking the bottle from his mouth, he pants, relieved at the sensation coursing through his body. Setting the bottle on the counter, he unknowingly chuckles out loud. It isn't until he looks up that his face falls.

The bottle is empty. He's downed the entire fucking bottle in one go.

Gripping the counter, he bites his lip and hangs his head.

Sure, everyone has a relapse every now and again, right? But that wasn't even the problem.

The problem was, he knew it still wasn't enough.

The warmth was still spreading through his chest, and it seemed a bit easier to breathe. Grabbing the glass, he slides it across the granite before heading towards the door. Tearing on tattered old black and white high tops, he stumbles a bit to pull up at the heel. Regaining balance, he lets out a dry laugh as he reaches for his black leather jacket hanging near the door. He slips it on quietly, heading down the hall to the second door on the right.

The door is already a bit ajar, and the feathery blue hair is still. The blankets rising and falling gently in the small bed inside. Facing towards the wall, the little body seems almost totally still in the night. Backing out of the room, he leans against the hallway wall.

He blinks, looking at the ground.

Can he do this? Can he actually leave him?

Pacing away from the room, he curses under his breath as he walks in circles in the living room.

"...f-fucking… f-fucking _hell_."

Is he actually about to leave his son here? Completely alone?

 _You're just going down the block._

Anything could happen.

 _You need this._

What if something…

 ** _You need this._**

The battle rages in his mind. The ugly demon in his thoughts beckons with promises of relief behind his eyes, ringing in his ears, making it impossible to think through the fog. He grips his hair with both hands, a frustrated sigh leaving his body. Something catches his eye as he looks across the room. With gritted teeth, he scowls at the image of the young woman standing near a piano.

 _That fucking picture._

Over seven months ago.

It was all the motivation he needed.

With resolve, he grabs his keys, locks the door, and pulls it behind him.

* * *

"A-Another whiskey, K-Kelly."

"Christ, Professor Sanchez. You sure?"

"Please, s-saave me the lecture. N-Now, can you just… just fucking g-give it to me, already?"

The short brunette across the bar scowls at him as she walks away. A moment later she returns with the sweet, intoxicating brassy liquor. He grabs it as she slides it to him slowly.

"Th-Thanks…" he mumbles, downing the glass in one tilt of the head. He scratches at the back of his neck, then ruffles his hair.

 _I must look like a fucking wreck._

He glances ahead towards the glass reflection of the bar. There's only a few other patrons scattered about at this late hour. It's almost four in the morning, and the manager calls into the crowd.

"Hello folks, we're closing in five minutes! Five minutes!" he calls in a thick accent.

With a sigh, he lays down two twenties on the smooth bar surface. His legs buckle slightly as he stands. Much more drunk than he originally thought, he takes a few steadying breathes before crossing the room. Somehow, he's able to make his way through the wooden doors and out into the world beyond.

He makes it outside, the warm summer night air hot and muggy. The ground feels like it's trembling beneath him as he takes a step, and he falls to his hands. He doesn't feel the impact of pain, but rather marvelous in the sensation of blood dripping from his hands.

The concrete is cool compared to the heavy air. He strokes his hands across the ground feeling the dirt and dusty over his skin, mixing with the sticky red. A flash from the corner of his eyes makes him lift his head.

"Wh…Wh-Who?" he slurs, staring as the tall figures comes closer and closer. Suddenly, he feels a pressure beneath his arms, lifting him to his feet. A gruff voice pulls him from the darkness.

"F-Fuck, Sam… Y-You're ok. Y-You're ok."

Questions flood his brain as they begin to walk. But the words can't form over his tongue as he stares at the pair of feet. He tries to focus on matching his feet with these others. After only a moment, he's disoriented by another flash. The last thing he feels is the soft feel of a bed under his tired body, and the sensation of someone taking off his shoes. In a moment of strength, he lifts his head to his caregiver. Spiky blue hair swirls with white and brown as he struggles to put the pieces together.

"R-R…R-Rick?"

"Y-Yeah, buddy. It's me. Y-You're… you're really…"

But the darkness takes Sam before he can finish the rest.

* * *

The disgusting scene is almost comically familiar.

Empty liquor bottles on the counter.

Blood on the walls and door handles.

A sleeping, unknowing, unattended kid in the back.

The only thing missing was a screaming wife.

Rick paces around the dark kitchen, hands in his pockets. From an outside perspective, the place looks pretty normal. Sleek dark cabinets, no dishes in the sink, stainless steel appliances, and even a fruit basket with some happy red apples. Leaning down, Rick opens the refrigerator. His face falls as he seems the scarce contents- only a carton of almost empty orange juice, a bottle of mayo, some moldy fruit, and a leftover pizza box.

Shutting the door quietly, Rick continues his investigation, sliding open the drawer next to the stove. Five packs of cigarettes and about three lighters rest in this space. Rick sighs, reaching in to grab a pack, stuffing it in his pocket.

It's just as Rick had feared- the surface image of Sam's life seems perfect, but dig deep enough…

 _It's empty and meaningless on the inside._

Shutting the drawer, he moves smoothly and silently down the hallway, stopping at the door ajar.

Rick's shoulders fall when he sees the bright blue hair. He walks over quietly to sit on the edge of the bed. Rick uncharacteristically is taken by the beauty of the child's peace, and runs his long fingers through his grandson's hair. The child doesn't stir, the gentle rise and fall of his breath continues in a steady pattern. Rick glances around the room, his eyes falling on the stars and moons nightlight swirling about on the small dresser. A grin spreads across his face when he sees the room littered with more posters about space- pictures and diagrams of all the planets, some happy looking aliens, and one that looks like the NASA logo.

After a moment, Rick's face falls. He feels the anger bubbling up inside him, building even hotter as he stares at the small boy asleep next to him, totally unaware of the evenings events.

Rick stands, and with one look back, he pulls the door closed behind him.

* * *

As the sunlight makes its way across the bedroom, the brightness lands on Sam's face. It very well could have been a laser beam waking him up, the pain making him wince awake. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly as he sits up.

"Ahh…f-fucking… fucking hell."

Sam rubs his temples with both hands, taking deep breathes.

He's had hangovers worse than this, sure… but it has been awhile.

He glances at the clock.

 _9:36 am_

"J-Jesus Christ!" he exclaims, jumping out of bed.

How long has Ricky been by himself?

His mind is racing as he slams open the bedroom door with a bang. The apartment seems quiet, and his ears and eyes scan the living room for signs of his child.

"Ricky? Ricky?!" he shouts, running to his son's bedroom. Pushing the door open, he feels a wave of nausea sear through him. Sam grips the frame of the door, his breathing labored. Dark blue sheets are tossed aside, the pillow askew.

 _Empty_

 _The bed is empty_.

"H-He's FINE." A gruff voice calls from the kitchen.

Sam's ears perk as his mind processes the voice. Walking towards the kitchen, he sees the old man sitting on the balcony attached to the kitchen, the door open, smoking a cigarette.

"R-Rick… you? You… where's Ricky?!" Sam exclaims, his hands gripping the glass table outside.

Rick exhales with a scowl, gesturing to the seat across from him.

"He's with his Auntie Beth. N-Now, have a fucking seat for me here, right now, _son_." Rick spats the last word, making Sam flinch. Sam sits slowly, slouching down in the chair.

Sam feels numb as his mind pieces together the night's events.

"J-J…Jesus Christ, wh-what did I do last night?" Sam breathes, his eyes glued to the streets below.

He hears Rick cough with a laugh, more smoke wafting around them. Rick slides a cigarette across the table with a lighter. Sam quickly takes the offer, sparking the lighter with a quick inhale of smoke.

"W-Well, how, how about we… we start with the biggest fuck up, and work our way down, shall we?"

Rick flicks the butt into the street, pounding the pack into his hand before pulling out another. The silence is torture as Sam waits for him to continue before lighting up again.

"I-I'd… I-I'd say leaving your six-year-old home alone while you go out binge drinking h-has to… has to take the cake."

Taking a drag, Sam is quiet as he waits for Rick to continue. He's confused when he doesn't speak again, but abruptly stands, reaching into his jacket.

"L-Listen, kid… I-I … I-I'm not exactly the role model to… to listen to when it comes to, you know… responsibility and shit. Th-The only thing I can tell you for sure? I-If… if you don't get your shit together, y-you're gonna fuck that kid up even... even more than he already is."

Sam chokes as Rick pulls the portal gun from his jacket, shooting the green mass in front of him.

"I-It's been a long fucking night, Sam… We're… I-I'm going to look after Ricky for a little awhile. You know, while you figure out whatever the fuck it is you're doing."

Before Sam can protest, his father disappears without a trace.

* * *

Notes: I'm pretty excited to continue this story :) Thanks for reading. Reviews are always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

It was a quiet, sunny Sunday morning waking on the crummy brown leather couch. The smell may have woken her up before the sun, the mix of body odor, rotten food, and beer sour in the air. Sitting up, memories of the previous night had her face in flame as she quickly looked to her left, grabbing her shirt that had been discarded on the floor the night before. She was careful not to wake the body next to her while she slipped the shirt over her head. She stared at the shirtless figure next to her, facing the other direction, snoring loudly.

Blonde hair, pale skin. Was it…Michael?...Max?... Something with an 'M', for sure.

The three-bedroom house held none of its charm or humor in the daylight. The floor was sticky as she sat up with bleary eyes, cursing the terrible taste in her mouth. Looking around, she noticed she was the first one awake in the room full of about six or seven other people lying about on the floor and couch. The tables were still littered with trash- sticky red cups, cigarette butts, food wrappers, moldy dishes…

A typical rental of a few college junior guys.

Praying to leave the scene without being noticed, she quickly smoothed her hair back, ignoring the pounding headache behind her eyes. She stood, thanking God that her pants were nearby. Slipping them on carefully, she tiptoed through the passed out crowd out the front door, grabbing her shoes as she went.

The cool morning air was a welcome, clean sensation as she began walking down the street barefoot. She hadn't driven the night before, but had walked with a few of the guy friends currently passed out in the house left behind her. In the same clothes she wore the night before, barefoot, makeup dirty and smeared on her face, smelling of cigarettes and booze, she trekked the five blocks back to her dorm with only one phrase on her tongue.

 _Walk of shame._

Luckily not too many people were out so early, and she managed to reach her dorm room without interaction. After discarding her clothes and a long shower, she flopped onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Laying an arm across her eyes, she hiccupped softly, the tears pooling wet around her ears.

Wasn't all of this supposed to be fun?

Why wasn't any of this fun? What was she looking for?

She needed to feel normal. She wanted to feel like… herself again.

Would things ever be normal again?

What is normal, anyway?

She laughed, thinking of her version of normal.

The thought brought up a deep sadness, and the uncomfortable feeling of homesickness radiated in her stomach.

Sitting up, she reached on her dresser to grab her phone. Unlocking it, she touched the 'H' icon on her home screen. She cleared her voice and wiped her nose, putting the phone up to her ear.

"H-Hello?"

"Hey Morty! It's Summer!" she replied in a cheery tone.

"O-Oh hey, Summer! What's, how's it going?"

"Not much, I was, umm… thinking about coming home today for a visit. Is… is anyone home?"

"A visit? W-We're actually just getting ready to leave. Little cousin Ricky is here, and we're taking him to see a movie!"

Summer stood, her brow furrowed.

"Ricky? I didn't know he was visiting… is Sam there too?"

"N-No, just Ricky. Rick just showed up with him, s-said Sam needed some time off, o-or something."

Summer was silent as she absorbed Morty's words. The breakup a couple months ago had been tough on Sam, but he was a really devoted father. He never seemed the type to 'need a break' from their kid…

"S-Summer? D-Did you need something?"

Morty's stutter disrupted her thoughts as she gave a hollow laugh.

"No! Sorry, Morty… tell mom and dad I said hi."

* * *

Christ, the place hadn't changed one bit. Even after all these years, the old damp, dark trailer park looked completely frozen in time. Broken down, torn apart trucks in the yard littered with beer bottles, trash, and three or four pit bills tied to a nearby tree. The sun was falling fast, and Sam walked a bit quicker passed the dogs up the dirt pathway to the decrepit porch. He steps to avoid a hole in the moldy wood.

Sam could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the thin white door. He heard a few more dogs barking inside, making him even more tense. He swallowed, hands in his pockets. The ringing in his ears started as a low grumble at first. His hands are trembling as he shakes his head.

 _Open the door._

 _Open the door._

 _Open the fucking door, Sam._

Sam jumps as the door flies open before he can touch it.

A very large, dark-haired man in a stained white t-shirt appears in the frame, shouting back inside.

"Shut the FUCK UP, already! Goddam dogs…" The man turns to walk outside, and a look of surprise wipes across his greasy face, quickly turning smug.

"Well, fuck, if it isn't pretty boy Sanchez. Haven't seen you around in quite some time, kid."

Sam feels his stomach heave. But he pushes it down, looking anywhere but at the man's face.

"Y-Yeah, Chuck, it's been… awhile." Sam replies. He feels frozen.

"Hah, well, suuure good to see you kid. Come on inside!"

Sam feels every inch of his skin burn as the man grabs him by the shoulders, ushering him inside.

The inside looks exactly as Sam remembers. The tiny round table in the disgusting, smelly kitchen. The dark walls with the smell of cheap vodka. The red lamp with the grey lampshade next to the plaid couch.

That fucking plaid couch.

"Well, have a seat, Sanchez." The man grunts, gesturing to the couch.

"N-No thanks, I think I-I'll stand." Sam mutters, hands still in his pockets.

"What the fuck ever, suit yourself." He replies, plopping down on the couch. Chuck reaches underneath the coffee table to pull old an old Christmas tree-shaped tin.

"What are you looking for?"

"H-Half an ounce."

Mike tosses the small bag of white powder towards him. Sam catches it, gazes at it into the light.

Christ, it's been so long since he's had a bump.

He doesn't notice when Chuck stands, walking towards him. Sam is jolted by Mike's booming voice, nearly dropping the bag.

"So, kid… What's payment gonna be this time?"

Sam feels sick as he sees Chuck give him a once over. Quickly he pulls out a wad of bills.

"Cash." Sam replies coldly, extending his hand with the money.

"Suit yourself. But, you know…" Chuck purrs. He pretends to reach for the cash, but instead quickly grabs Sam by the wrist holding the money. He yanks Sam a bit off balance, the pressure building around his grip.

"I could always just fuck that pretty mouth of yours again. Just like old times when you were around, yeah?"

He grins, and Sam shoves him away.

"Fuck off, Chuck. T-Take the cash, or, or…" Sam growls, taking a step backwards. Chuck laughs, a deep and low, terrible laugh.

"Or you'll what? Find another dealer? Not take the blow? You don't have the connections you used to."

The fight or flight reflex is making Sam's heart pound in his chest. Chuck is a pretty big guy, but he's slow. It wouldn't be the first time he's punched this particular asshole. A good right hook might send this whole situation to a halt. Or send it spiraling out of control. Either of which Sam wasn't prepared for. He sighs, shoulders falling.

"L-Look… you want the cash, or not? I-I'm not up to other forms of payment anymore."

Chuck laughs, taking a step forward. He slaps Sam on the back in a hug, taking the cash from his hands.

"Get the fuck outta here, kid. Maybe next time, then."

* * *

The drive home is foggy.

Parking the car, Sam glances in the rearview. He disturbed when he looks back to find he's been sitting in the parking lot for over twenty minutes.

His body feels as if it's on autopilot as he walks up the stairs, unlocking the door from muscle memory. The apartment is darker than he remembers, the living room wall a deep, disturbing purple. The color was wickedly comical, and Sam rushes by without making eye contact. He turns on the overhead light and it disappears, returning back to the calming light blue.

Reaching into his pocket, he tosses the small white bag across the room.

Was it moving?

They're laughing at him.

Calling him weak.

Calling him useless.'

 _What? You think you're actually not going to do it?_

 _Who in the fuck are you trying to kid?_

 _It's just us here._

 _Just do it._

"F-Fucking, Christ…"

Sam staggers to the kitchen, his hands scratching for purchase against the smooth granite. He opens the top cabinet to pull out a green can of coffee. Tearing off the lid, Sam stops when the smell hits him. The cruel imitation of warmth, laced with a sour undertone. Another farce of life in the dark.

The anger boils up too quickly to contain, and Sam hurls the open can towards the wall. It's a brilliant display of dark fireworks as Sam stands in the kitchen, seething.

"It's a f-fucking, FAKE! A God, God damn, FAKE!" he roars.

 _You're the fake._

 _You're the FAKE._

 _YOU ARE THE FAKE._

"I-I can't even, even have any fucking coffee."

 _You are so worthless._

A knock on the door has Sam jumping back into reality. He stares at the door from across the living room, willing it to knock just one more time. Something, anything to pull him back. Sam holds his breath, waiting.

Releasing a shaky sigh with the second knock, Sam runs a hand through his hair before rushing to the door. His eyes go wide as his mouth gapes, staring down at the girl in front of him.

"S-Summer? Wh-What are you doing here?"

Summer huffs playfully, hands on her hips.

" 'What are you doing here'? Come on, I don't need a reason to see my faaavorite Uncle!" Summer exclaims. Sam cocks an eyebrow, but steps aside. He watches her anxiously as she looks around the apartment. Sam's gut clenches as she walks towards the kitchen, passed the couch.

"What the hell happened?" Summer asks, swishing around the coffee grounds with her foot. Sam closes the door, leaning on it with arms crossed.

"Y-Yeah, just uhh… an accident." He mutters. He wills himself to stop, STOP LOOKING underneath the couch. This is too fucking close. Summer hums in response, entranced by the patterns and shapes she's making out of the coffee grounds.

"N-Not that, that I-I don't care about my niece, but… what the fuck are you actually doing here, Summer?"

Summer looks up with a sigh. She slings the backpack from her shoulder onto the couch, sitting down.

Sam's heart nearly stops. But he doesn't look down.

"Things are just… tough at school right now, Sam. And the family has been weird lately… I mean like, weirder than normal, I guess…"

Summer scratches her shoulder, looking self-conscious. She looks up at Sam, still frozen in front of the door. His body language is clear enough, and she stands.

"Listen, Sam, I'm sorry… I shouldn't have come here like this."

Grabbing her bag, she jumps when she looks up to see Sam taking hold of her bag in his hands.

"No, Summer, i-it's… it's ok. Y-You can stay as long as you like." Sam smiles a brilliant smile, and Summer beams.

"You mean it?! I mean, I won't over stay my welcome, of course!"

"Of course, I-I… could use the company." Sam replies, pushing her towards the hallway.

"Y-You can use the guest room down the hall. Last one on the right."

Summer stops and turns, smiling at Sam with genuine admiration.

"Thanks, Sam…"

Sam watches her disappear into the room, and he makes a beeline back into the living room, his heart pounded painfully fast. Sitting on the couch, he kicks the bag further back into the darkness.

 _You're such a fucking loser._


End file.
